Not You
by Phantom531
Summary: Sad fic- Wilson does the unthinkable to get House to be vulnerable. Ths isn't slash, but it is rather sad. Although it may be odd to have a dedication for a fic, this is for Jerry.


I DON'T OWN ANYTHING

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_Not You_

If you asked him later, James Wilson would never be able to tell you why he did it.

Not that he really remembered, _of course_. He'd tell you that his memory started when he woke up in the hospital with House standing over him, glaring at him in a way that would send anyone _but_ him scurrying like a frightened cockroach. As Lisa Cuddy was pacing behind House and muttering to herself. House hadn't told her James was awake and she continued to mutter to herself, until House finally snapped at her to shut the hell up and shouted at her so loud tears had actually welled in her eyes –_that_ had never happened before. He, James Wilson, was probably _so_ fired. Not because he'd done anything really worth firing over- he didn't think she could fire him for attempting suicide- but because she was so mad at him for trying to give it all up like he had.

If you asked him later, Wilson would tell you that the version House told you, -told everyone, including himself- was true. That he'd found him at home the way Wilson had found him so often: in a pool of vomit, urine, and alcohol, with empty pill bottles all about. Except with House, it had been scotch. Wilson had taken vodka. It had been on sale. He'd add his memory clouded over around the time he'd gotten home and realized for the millionth time he was _alone_. Not just alone, the last person in the universe, at least to him. Around the time where he took the first pill.

House had stopped by on a hunch. Wilson had been "soppy and stupid" lately and House wanted to see why. Upon finding Wilson in the aforementioned condition, House had dragged him to the bathroom, held him over the toilet and jammed his fingers down Wilson's throat –Wilson found himself wondering, in passing, how much that had hurt House's leg. When Wilson didn't throw up the remaining pills immediately, House had actually punched him in the stomach. He'd been saying something, voice choked with tears and panic that he'd never admit to anyone, but Wilson would never say what. It echoed in his head and he tucked it away in his memory.

"_Not you. Oh, God, not you. _It should be me!_ It can't be you. It can't be you. Please, no, it _can't_ be you."_

Of _course_, it should have been House instead of him. Wilson had thought it many times, although he would never admit it to anyone. _So _many times he surprised himself by truly wishing House dead. It truly amazed him how he could love someone so much, and hate him so completely.

He held on to the memory of that one second where he proved House cared, when House was vulnerable, open, and frightened. Tucked it away with the memory of Amber's last kiss, the last time he played board games with his brothers, and other such comforting thoughts.

If you asked him later, James Wilson would tell you that House had saved his life and that he was, after everything was said and done, kind of happy about it. Kind of grateful. But he wasn't.

For now, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, House sitting silently at his side. House's team had stayed away from the room, going to Cuddy for everything instead, which meant they would probably kill a patient in a day or two. That didn't matter.

If you asked him later –and House did- Wilson would lie about everything. No, he really _didn't_ know why. It was an impulse thing, call it a cry for help, call it a weird accident while drunk. A 'seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time'. He'd never tell you it was, at least in part, to punish House, to make him face what he was doing to everyone around him. And he'd succeeded.

If you asked him later, House would tell you that his silence in the days following was just stress and too much Vicodin, a product of his moronic best friend stupidly attempting suicide. He'd never tell you that, although he was pretty sure Wilson had been too out of it to know what he'd said, that it really _should_ have been him. That had been pure truth and he'd been stung with the hard edge of it. He'd still brush off everything with another Vicodin and mean, misanthropic comment.

In the silence between them in the days that followed before normalcy took back over, there was one echo.

"_Not you. Oh, God, not you. It should be me! It can't be you. It can't be you. Please, no, it _can't_ be you."_


End file.
